


Beard

by synchronik



Series: Not The Prettiest Game [9]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronik/pseuds/synchronik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I told them I was married," Ryan says, once he's back in the hotel room and gets Chris on the phone.</p><p>"Oh, yeah?" Chris sounds amused.  "Is she nice?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beard

Ryan feels himself answering the question automatically, like reaching out to catch a ball.

"So, Ryan, are you married?"

"Yeah. I mean, no." 

The guy is one of the front office guys, a suit, freshly scrubbed and puffed up with the importance of showing a free trade prospect around. His confusion is a nice change from his arrogance.

"I was," Ryan says. "Divorced."

"Oh." The guy, who's maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, nods like he knows what Ryan's talking about, but the ring on his finger still gleams. "That's too bad. We've got a great baseball wives organization here. Really involved in the community. It's like a family."

Ryan nods, eyes scanning the empty seats. They're on the main concourse looking out onto the field. The roof is open, but the grass isn't in yet and the dirt looks patchy and damp. He hasn't played here often, but he remembers how it felt with the roof closed. Like playing in a tin box. 

"Anyway, lucky for the single ladies of Houston," the guy says. "Unless you're seeing someone seriously..."

"I don't have a girlfriend right now," Ryan says.

"Oh, well." The guy is silent for a second, fidgeting with his wedding ring. He's either hitting on Ryan, or he's asking a question. Neither option is a good option. "Texas women," he says. "You know..."

"Yeah," Ryan says, even though he has no idea what Texas women are like. His ex-wife was from Tennessee and his college girlfriend was from Pennsylvania. "Can you show me the clubhouse?"

* * *

It comes up again at lunch with the manager, A.J., who seems friendly enough until the food arrives. "So, Ryan," he says, picking up a club sandwich, "Jason tells me you're not married."

Ryan swallows the bite he's just taken, swiping his hand over his face to make sure there are no crumbs in his beard before he speaks. Club sandwiches and noodle salad. This is the Astros' idea of a recruiting lunch. He really wishes he'd done the physical beforehand. "No, sir," he says. "Divorced."

"That's a shame. You have any kids?"

"One. He lives with his mother."

A.J. shakes his head sadly. "It's always hardest on the kids, I find. I hope you'll bring the little one around from time to time. We're a family organization."

"That's great," Ryan says, because what the hell else do you say when someone spouts bullshit like "we're a family organization"?

"Yep, mom and apple pie," A.J. says, taking a bite of his sandwich. "And baseball."

Ryan tries to smile. "Yes, sir." 

"You got a girl?" one of the front office guys asks.

Ryan feels his smile tighten. "Not at the moment."

"That's too bad," A.J. says, slapping Ryan on the shoulder. "But don't worry, son, we'll find you one."

Ryan smiles again, and nods, and says nothing.

* * *

It comes up for the third and final time, like a test in a fairy tale, while Ryan is going through the physical. This time it's the head athletic trainer, Nate, a beefy Hispanic guy who has the friendly demeanor of all good trainers.

"So, man, you married?" he asks as he gets the treadmill programmed.

Ryan glances at him for a second, but Nate is looking at buttons. "Divorced," he says. 

"Ahh." Nate nods like he understands. "It's a tough life. My wife and I got two little girls."

"That's great," Ryan says. He tries to sound like he means it. 

"The best," Nate says, stepping back to let Ryan get on the treadmill. "But don't worry, man. We'll find you someone." He slaps Ryan's arm and presses the start button, before Ryan can answer.

* * *

"I told them I was married," Ryan says, once he's back in the hotel room and gets Chris on the phone.

"Oh, yeah?" Chris sounds amused. "Is she nice?"

"Shut up." Ryan sighs.

"So, what do you think?" Chris asks.

Ryan sighs. "A lot of talk about 'veteran presence.' I'd definitely be starting."

"They're a young team, a lot of potential," Chris says. 

"Yeah." Ryan sighs again. "They also have a stellar wives organization, in case you were worried."

Chris chuckles. "I'll keep in it mind. For real, what do you think?"

"I think I want to come home."

"Pittsburgh or San Francisco?"

"Yes," Ryan says.

* * *

The offer comes in less than an hour after he walks through the door, while he's still unpacking his gear. It's good -- two years, ten million, plus the standard performance bonuses -- and demonstrates that the Astros are serious.

"I'm not going to lie, Ryan," his agent says. "A multi-year contract at this stage is nothing to sneeze at. And they're making a push this year."

"I know," Ryan says. 

"You have 72 hours," Dave says. "I'm gonna reach out to the other teams and let them know. I'll keep you posted."

"Thanks, man. I'll do the same."

"Alright, have a good--"

Ryan blurts out the words before he can stop himself. "Dave, make sure you call Sabean."

In the brief silence that follows, he can almost hear Dave's pity. "Of course, Ryan. First thing. Good night."

Ryan hangs up and sets his phone on the table next to the bed. 

Chris is standing in the doorway, a half-chewed apple in his hand. "Good?" he asks. 

Ryan nods. "Two years, ten million, plus bonuses."

Chris whistles. 

"Yeah," Ryan says. He leans until his forehead is against Chris's shoulder and stays there for awhile, ignoring everything but the feel of Chris's fingers on his back.

* * *

Minnesota comes back and says they will match the money for one year, but won't go higher, and won't offer two. Arizona says no, outright. The Giants say nothing.

Ryan knows that, objectively, he should take the offer. Two years, ten million, a team that's making a serious move this season, the opportunity to be a leader in the clubhouse. On paper, it's all there. This is his next opportunity, this is his retirement money. 

But he keeps hearing the question in the back of his mind:

_Are you married, Ryan?_

He knows that the grapevine in professional baseball is almost as strong as the professional reporting, and twice as powerful. If people know -- and, fuck, he even _told_ some of them -- then it's possible that someone told someone who told someone who told the Astros. _Vogelsong's a faggot. Vogelsong's queer._

But if that's a problem for them, why such a good offer? If they know, why all the questions about a wife? This is fucking ironic. Five months ago he'd been desperate to tell the world about himself, about him and Chris, and now he was hoping that no one would find out for the next two years.

"What are you thinking?" Chris asks as they're leaving the gym. It's only a month until Spring Training, when Chris will head to Florida and Ryan will head...somewhere. After months of being together almost every day, Ryan is sort of looking forward to the break, but he knows he's going to miss Chris immediately. Maybe he can persuade Chris to Facetime or Skype this year, even though he hates it.

_Are you married, Ryan?_

Ryan shakes his head. "Nothing," he says.

* * *

"Can I tell you something?" Chris asks into the dark. It's a weird question that makes Ryan hesitate before saying yes. Chris normally just says shit without worrying about how it will be taken; Ryan's the worrier.

"Sure."

"I almost like the Beard when you do that."

Ryan smiles. "The Beard," as Chris calls it, is a point of contention between them. Ryan started growing it in the winter while he was as his parent's cabin for Christmas, and somehow a beard had seemed appropriate for the setting. He'd chopped a lot of wood that week. Chris had been in California with his own family for the week and had almost walked past Ryan at the airport when he came in.

"What the hell is _that_?" he'd asked in the car.

"A beard. You grow them all the time."

"No." Chris had shaken his head. "No. I don't--that. No. You look like a lumberjack."

Ryan had smiled. "I like it."

"I'm not fucking you until you shave," Chris had declared, pulling into traffic, but he'd broken his word no more than fifteen minutes after they got home, pushing Ryan to the bed and sliding into him before they even took their shoes off, so Ryan wasn't too worried about it.

This time, Ryan had been the initiator, creeping up behind Chris while he was reading at the kitchen counter, sliding his hands up under Chris's shirt and biting lightly at the side of his throat. 

"Oh," Chris had sighed, tipping his head back. 

They couldn't do it in the kitchen with the lights on--the wall was basically entirely windows--so Ryan pulled him off the stool and walked him into the bedroom, one hand cupped on his cock, mouth latched onto his neck. They were the same height, but Ryan is just generally bigger, and sometimes he uses it to his advantage. Chris doesn't seem to mind.

This time, he forced Chris onto his stomach and stripped him quickly, then spent the better part of an hour stroking him, sucking the planes of his shoulder blades, the knobs of his spine. Over and over, he rubbed his beard up Chris's back, then followed with his tongue to soothe the scraped skin, making Chris shudder and gasp into the pillows. By the time Ryan entered him, teeth clamping onto the side of his throat, Chris had been shaking. He'd come on the sheets in seconds, shoulders tense, voice high.

Now they're lying like spoons, Chris curled in front of him, hand over his. "What was that?" Ryan asks.

"Shut up," Chris says.

Ryan rubs his beard over the back of Chris's neck, over the places he knows will be red tomorrow, and Chris wiggles. "I think I heard you say you like the Beard, though."

" _Almost,_ " Chris says. He reaches over his shoulder and tugs it. "I _almost_ like it."

"You sounded like you liked it a couple of minutes ago," Ryan says. 

"No, that was me liking your cock," Chris says, pushing his ass back into Ryan's groin. "The Beard was incidental."

"Incidental, my ass," Ryan says, although Chris is probably telling the truth. Chris rarely isn't. 

"Exactly," Chris says. He pulls Ryan's arm tighter around him and sighs when Ryan kisses his neck. "You should shave it."

"I'll think about it," Ryan says, although he's not going to think about it at all, and they both know it. It's warm in the bedroom, and Chris's skin is hot against his, and he's tired and mostly asleep when the question bolts through him:

_Are you married, Ryan?_

But Chris shifts in his embrace, and strokes his forearm, and before Ryan can answer, he's asleep.

* * *

At hour forty-one, Dave sends through the paperwork on the Astros offer. "We haven't countered yet," he tells Ryan. "We got a lot of leverage, okay?"

"This isn't my first time at the rodeo," Ryan says, opening his computer.

"I know," Dave says. "I'm just saying. Let me know what you think."

"Anything else I should know," Ryan asks, trying to keep his voice neutral. 

"You know I would tell you," Dave says.

"Yeah." There's silence for a second. Dave his been his agent for a long time and part of that is that he understands when to shut up. Ryan has never appreciated that more. "Thanks, Dave."

"Let me know if you have any questions," Dave says.

It's a standard player's agreement, nothing too fancy. Ryan scrolls to the money, which matches what Dave said on the phone. There are some nice performance incentives, too, a couple of innings thresholds that he should have no trouble meeting, and the playoff percentages are decent, although he never counts on those. 

Ryan scrolls down to the last pages. His dad taught him this: "the back of a contract is where shit gets squirrelly," he'd say, turning pages on the contract at a car dealership or for a new vendor for the factory. Most of the time Ryan doesn't have a clue what he's looking at, but sometimes he catches things. A couple of times, Ryan's habit has found hidden fees, and once he caught an obligation to have an apartment exterminated in one of his lease agreements. It doesn't happen all the time, but sometimes, like his dad said, shit gets squirrelly.

Like this time.

The morals clause itself doesn't surprise him--all player contracts have them--but this one looks...long. 

_Athlete agrees to conduct himself with due regard to public conventions and morals, and agrees that he will not do or commit any act or thing that will tend to degrade him in society or bring him into public hatred, contempt, scorn or ridicule, or that will tend to shock, insult or offend the community or ridicule public morals or decency. Further, and without limitation of the foregoing, Athlete will not commit acts of moral turpitude or sexual degeneracy or provide solace or support, verbal or financial, for those committing the same._

Ryan reads it a couple of times. Contempt. Scorn. Ridicule. Moral turpitude. Sexual degeneracy.

 _Are you married, Ryan?_ someone whispers in the back corner of his brain.

Ryan shuts the computer and puts his head down on it, breathing through his nose.

* * *

He can't sleep. Chris lies next to him, snoring lightly, arms curled around a pillow. Ryan stares out at the night sky, bright with reflected city lights. He turned off the ringer on his phone before he came to bed, because that way he won't be jumping up every five seconds imagining it beeping. His fingers itch with the urge to grab it, though, so he gets out of bed (behind him, Chris sighs and shifts on the mattress), and carries the phone into the living room. Once he's alone, he looks at it.

It hasn't rung.

Sixteen hours to go and the Giants haven't called him. No one has called him, not even Lincecum or Crawford. They're waiting to see what will happen, whether they are calling with congratulations or goodbyes. He understands the impulse and wishes he weren't pissed at them, but he sort of is. Of course, he didn't reach out two years ago, when Lincecum was on the block because he didn't know what to say or how to say it. The worry, the anxiety that you suffer at times like these isn't something that you share with the other players, even though they're the ones who would really understand. That's the kind of thing you share with your family, with...

...with your wife.

"Hey," Chris says, appearing like Ryan called his name. "Any word?"

"No. I can't sleep." 

"You could fix that, you know." Chris comes around the corner of the sofa and sits down, flopping into Ryan's lap.

"Yeah? How?" 

"Say yes." Chris yawns and nuzzles his face into Ryan's belly. "Accept the offer."

And that's when he knows, Chris's words bringing everything into focus like a camera lens adjusting. Everything is clear in an instant.

He won't go to Houston. Giants or no Giants, he won't go. He'll take the shitty offer in Minnesota if he has to, he'll play out of the bullpen, he'll go back to the minors, whatever, but he won't go to Texas. He can't.

He doesn't have a wife.

Suddenly, he is overcome with weariness. "Hey," he says, shoving at Chris, who's dozed off on top of him. "Come back to bed."

Chris staggers to his feet, draping his arms over Ryan's shoulders, his body sleep-warm and heavy. Ryan catches him with both hands, kisses his cheek. "You should shave this," Chris mumbles, his fingers in Ryan's beard. 

"Yeah," Ryan says, guiding him toward the bedroom. "I probably should."

**Author's Note:**

> In 2015, before the start of Spring Training, it looked like a done deal that Ryan Vogelsong was going to the Houston Astros. He even went down to Houston and took a physical (although obviously my account of what happened there is completely fictional). Afterwards, he did not go to Houston and ended up re-signing with the Giants (hooray!), but what is most noteworthy about that is that Ryan himself mentioned several times that he "wasn't comfortable" with the way things went down in Houston. (See, e.g, http://blog.chron.com/ultimateastros/2015/01/23/vogelsong-sings-odd-tune-about-astros-after-signing-with-giants/).
> 
> Of course, the reasons for his lack of comfort could be the way the negotiations happened--Houston has a reputation for trying (and failing) to play hardball with regard to contracts--but I prefer to think it's because Ryan Vogelsong lives a secret life with his now-boyfriend/former catcher Chris Stewart and the Houston Astros are a bunch of homophobes. They should call poor Ian Kinsler if they want to complain.


End file.
